1 Thessalonians 5:17

"Pray unceasingly."

I wake and kneel I kneel to pray
My prayer be raised this rise of day

When day is risen rain or sun
This day be prayer thy work be done

When day is set this work is done
So may I rest come rest of sun

I raise my prayer at set of day
To wake come rise of sun to pray


© Leticia Austria 2013
First published in Time of Singing

The Sacred Heart of Jesus, Source of Divine Love and Mercy

The flames depict Christ's ever-burning love, while the crown of thorns reminds us of the suffering and death He endured for our sake

If God is for us, who is against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, will he not also give us all things with him? Who shall bring any charge against God's elect? It is God who justifies; who is to condemn? Is it Christ Jesus, who died, yes, who was raised from the dead, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us? Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, "For thy sake we are being killed all the day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered." No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. ~ Romans 8:31b-39, RSVCE

The Lesson

Upon Thy Heart pray suffer me to rest,
That as Thou lovest I may humbly learn;
Bequeath this gift which of all Thine is best;
Imperfect loves of earth and flesh I spurn!
O Heart, Whose wound such wondrous love hath shewn,
And whence elixir sweet doth copious flow,
Grant Thou that this Thy purging deluge drown
My sin, and then with perfect love bestow
My shriven heart.  Thou Teacher of all hearts,
To master well Thy lesson do I pray;
Thy loving art doth shame such earthly arts
As once I learnt, ere came this precious day
Thou dost vouchsafe to give Thy lesson free
To one who thirsteth deep to learn of Thee.


"The Lesson" © Leticia Austria 2006

A Children's Poem for Paschaltide

 

I saw the premiere jonquil

Nodding sweetly by the walk,

Her frilly golden bonnet

So serene upon her stalk.

 

I saw a purple martin

Sweeping madly to and fro;

He circled, swooped, and glided,

Beat his wings in flighty show.

 

I saw the squirrels a-scamper

On the clover-pillowed lawn;

One scurried 'long the fence-top

To survey the goings-on.

 

And turning my gaze upward

To the cirrus-marbled sky,

Heaven seemed a song away,

This life a fleeting-by.

 

For when all nature's glories

My enchanted eyes behold,

The riches of God's goodness

Like a cloak my heart enfold.

 

I thank Him for the jonquils,

For the martins and the squirrels,

For spring, that joyous season

When each leaf and bud unfurls

 

To praise the Risen Savior

And the promise of that spring,

The life that is eternal,

Which His death to us did bring.

 

 

© Leticia Austria 2006

 

 



 



Three Poems for Holy Week

Renunciation

They once were mine,
These hands that played
Upon their shrine
Of ebon, tusk;
These hands that sang
Of heroes' wreaths,
The wreaths of maids,
And maidens' plaints.

Now silent, still,
The fingers weave
A chapel roof
Where slow tears drop
And drop and pool
While prayers sigh
And sigh and moan
Into the nave.

They once were mine,
These chastened wings,
As wings once chaste
Now crimsoned, cracked—
Into those hands,
My Lord, my God,
These I commend
That once were mine.


Simon

I once had all the answers
safely nested away.
I once knew who I was
and the path I was to take.
Why, then, did I pause to look?
Why interrupt the evenness
my life had become,
the status quo that beat
so assuredly in the hollow
where my heart was to have been?
But for my curiosity
the answers would still be mine.
One casual glance erased forever
those easy, formulaic solutions
and chanced to rest on the face
that now gives me no rest.
Streaked and stricken, it haunts me still,
gripping my soul with its
unspeakable pain and sorrow
born of a love I did not then
and cannot now fathom.
Yoked with him beneath the wood
I looked into his eyes,
and all my answers were lost,
forever drowned in that cup where
taking dies and
giving is eternally reborn.
No, it was not my choice.
And he was not my Lord.
But I shouldered his yoke
and trod in his steps,
leaving behind
my tidy nest of answers
and the self I knew
to become forever
His.


An Ecstasy

"No greater love than this."

My love, my love,
the unspoken word
Thou givest me who sought Thee,
I shall clasp within
this inner sanctum,
that my soul be branded
with its Cross, girded
with its diadem of grief.
Clear as the light
upon Thy limbs,
vivid as the blood
upon Thy brow—
with this fleeting, searing,
unspoken word
Thou hast answered me.
My love, my love,
Thy face is veiled
with the shadow
of my unworthiness; still,
I know Thy eyes,
laden with blows of ignorance
and arrogance.  Thy thorns
pierceth me through.
I cannot speak nor move,
but only weep; for,
mutely groaning, Thou turnest
Thy face to leave me
once more alone.

My love, my love, I ask you again
yet know too well I cannot bid you back,
nor would I; but live content that you,
o flame of my soul, warm me still.


© Leticia Austria

The Way along the Wall

This is an early poem, first drafted when I was a novice, revised a couple of years later. The little sketch was done during one of my many solitary strolls through the monastery grounds. There was a short path along one of the "arms" of the enclosure wall that I particularly loved and called "The Avenue." I wanted to memorialize it in this poem and sketch.

 

The Way along the Wall

"The Avenue" is dapple-most
on ochre afternoons.
Along this path the breezes murmur
their most wistful tunes,
the only sound
save the dry-leafed ground

beneath my feet.  I watch the light
play shyly on the wall,
the longed-for boundary that nestles
those who heed the call
in arms of stone
to be God's own.

I savor this way of wood and wall
that lies so straight, serene,
between the here, the now, the chosen,
and what once had been.
Still—I know that yesterday
is but a dappled wall away.

Poem and sketch © Leticia Austria 2009

The Promise

This is a very early poem that I wrote in the monastery and have since very slightly revised.


To surrender in faith is to hope in the dark.
Dark faith it is that first bids us
walk beneath Gethsemane's vigilant leaves
to the brow of Calvary, and there
grasp the hand shattered by our sin, trusting
we shall be carried beyond the weeping stars.

For beyond is where dawn ever gleams
with the joy given to those who trust,
to whom the dark is the way,
in whose hearts echoes the Virgin's fiat
in measure clear and strong.

To surrender in faith is to hope in the dark.
To hope in the dark is to tread toward the light,
the light that is life,
the life that is love,
the love that is Lord.

© Leticia Austria 2006

Fortitude

I wrote this poem for two reasons: 1) to preserve the details of a particularly vivid dream I had years ago, and 2) as an exercise in blank verse. With the exception of the two closing lines of alexandrines, the poem is all iambic pentameter.

 

I had this dream years before I returned to the Church. Later, during the discernment of my religious vocation, I chanced to glance through St Teresa of Avila's Interior Castle  and was astounded at the similarity between my dream and some passages in Second Mansions. This didn't really influence my decision to enter the monastery, but I did feel that the Spirit was speaking to my subconscious, even though at the time of the dream I had no idea what it meant.

Fortitude

Its bleak, imposing walls were banked with thorns;
Its mullioned windows, hulled unblinking eyes,
Kept watch upon the silent stretch of mead.
It stood as if in wait for someone who,
Like me, has wandered through this somber land
To start anew, unfettered by old sins.
Beyond the ranks of walls, beyond the mead,
I saw a forest beckoning with songs
Of hidden sparrows, verdant shade to soothe
My weary limbs, and brooks to cleanse away
With healing lays the dust of sodden years.

But thorns grew tangled thick around the walls
That stood between me and that blessèd place;
They hid the ground to left, the ground to right;
The only way I saw to paradise
Was through the walls and out the farther side.
I ran, I know not how; I could not feel
My feet, but trusted that they carried me
Despite the trepidation in my heart.

And there the timbered door stood opened wide,
A gaping mouth in wait for prey, for those
Who go undaunted through its splintered jaws.
I could not feel my feet, still less the ground;
But air tore past me sharply on my way
Through darkness of a narrow corridor,
A strangled throat of cold and damp, and on
Towards a faint and faintly winking light.

From dark to light, a sudden brutal shock;
From narrow hall to courtyard, savage bright,
And teeming with a mass of flicking tongues
And glinting scales. I felt my courage clamp
Itself around my throat, an iron band
Through which my breath came forth a ragged thread.
I had no feet at all, or so it seemed;
I only knew my body fought its way
Across the writhing courtyard floor, above
The slithering mass that stabbed and snapped the air
About my legs.

                                              I saw a gate ahead
That opened on the mead. Its doors were not
The splintered jaws that I had met before;
These welcomed with the promise of new life.
The band about my throat sprang loose; relieved,
I felt once more the grass beneath my feet;
Once more I saw across a thorn-less mead
The longed-for wood, a little nearer now,
And felt my blood, that had grown cold with fright,
Become a pulsing joy through all my limbs.

The walls stood stark behind me, draped in heavy past,
And hope lay green beneath a widening arc of light.

© Leticia Austria 2008

My Favorite Wildflower

     Many, many years ago—I think I must have been in middle school—I saw my first wild rain lily. It had finally rained hard one dry summer, and a couple of days after the storm I found a single white flower in our front yard, rising above the grass, straight and pristine as a ballerina en pointe. My first instinct was to pick it and put it in my room, but then I thought, it looks so right where it is. It was there for only a couple of days and I never saw another one in our yard since. I never forgot it, though, and later learned that it was a rain lily.

     Years later when I was in the monastery, I loved taking walks in the woods within the enclosure walls, and delighted in the various wildflowers that bloomed there, though I didn't know much about them. I had entered in the summer, a particularly dry one, and after the first heavy rainfall I noticed lilies had sprouted up—these, however, were not snowy white, but pale pinkish-purple, delicately striped. There was an old book in the novitiate library about Texas wildflowers, and I learned from it that this particular kind of rain lily grows in wooded areas. I also learned that the rain lily bulbs lie very deep in the ground, so deep that they sprout blooms only after a heavy enough rain breaks a long, long drought.

     Something about that fact moved me deeply. Maybe it was because I was going through so many difficulties, so many tests of patience and tolerance, during those first months as a postulant. Thinking of those flowers lying dormant for so long, patiently and confidently waiting for the rain from heaven to bring them forth from the dry earth, was a great help to me. I've loved rain lilies ever since. Now whenever I see them, standing tall and exultant after their deep sleep, I rejoice in God's sustaining grace and my belief in resurrection is renewed. We are, after all, more to God than the lilies of the field.

The Rain Lily

Beneath this crusted soil I shall await
the rain. Beneath the weight of withering roots
of weeds, I'll bide my time. It is the fate
allotted me. Inert yet resolute,

I have the shell of unremitting trust
in which to sleep, the pearl protection of
the waiting yet to rise, of those who must
depend upon the water from above

to fall and break the drought. For it must fall
someday, as surely as this ground is dry.
It is the compensation for us all.
The day will come when I shall see the sky.

["The Rain Lily" © Leticia Austria 2009. First published in The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry ]

Source



A Sunday Sonnet

BENEFICENCE

Thou art too loving and too gen'rous, Lord,
Forgiving such an errant one as I!
My soul's recalcitrance doth not accord
With grace benign, nor boundless clemency.
Unfaithful she hath been, self-willed and proud,
Sustained by praise and honour transient,
Imprisoned by her restlessness and vowed
Unto herself; but Thou, beneficent,
Didst care for naught but she remaineth Thine;
For what be Thine may yet possesseth not
Such merit worthy of Thy grace divine.
No matter to Thy Heart, which counteth not
This paltry worth, so infinite Its store:
Much as is giv'n, there ever shall be more.

© 2006 Leticia Austria, revised 2010

The Quest

     Ever since I first felt the call to a life of contemplative prayer, which was sometime in 2002 (difficult to pinpoint an exact moment), it has never left me. Each and every day, almost in every hour, it enters my thoughts. This is one reason I know it's authentic -- as my spiritual director in Houston told me (God rest his soul), if a notion keeps nagging at you and won't go away, even if you consciously try to push it away, it's probably God's will.

     I followed that call into the cloister, but after nearly two and a half years there, God called me back into the world to help my mother take care of my father. Now my father has passed, God has asked me to stay with my mother for as long as she needs me. The life I lead now, this relatively quiet, uneventful life, you'd think would easily accomodate the intense prayer I had in the cloister; indeed, I have tried and still try to pattern my day to include time not only for the Divine Office but also for stillness, silence, and meditation. However, I find that "the world" contiually encroaches into that silence and my mind teems with distractions. There are the distractions of the television, the internet, Facebook, Twitter, even this blog. Not five minutes go by during prayer time without some rogue internet- or news-related thought invading my meditation. It's come to the point where I've seriously thought of giving up the computer and using it only for the most necessary things. That would mean, of course, that I would also be giving up the almost daily communication I've enjoyed with dear friends, some of whom I haven't communicated with in literally decades. I was able to give that up once, with relatively little pain. Can I do it again? The television, which was in his last years my father's sole and almost day-long diversion, stands quiet for much of the day now, but even so, it's still an intrusion with its many references to violence, random sex, and materialism. The life of contemplation which I so want, and to which I'm certain God is calling me -- if it isn't to be in the blessed environment of the monastery, then exactly how does he want me to live it, right here and now, in the environment he's given me?

     I know that life itself, no matter what it is or what it entails, can and should become one continual prayer. That's what St Paul urged us to do. All of us, whatever our life's vocation, are called to maintain a state of inner recollection. However, that's ever so much easier said than done. I'll just have to keep asking God how he wants me to do it. That in itself is prayer.

The Quest

I've lived too many lives in this one life
and still I seek to live the one that's true.
Perhaps the way is there, over that slope,
where a corps of rain lilies pristine white
rise serenely after their long, deep sleep.
Could I, too, lie in wait beneath the ground,
till rousing rains at long last break the drought?
Small reward -- such brief freedom in the light!
And yet those maiden blooms seem not to care
that joy is theirs but for a little while.

But, no, perhaps the way lies farther on --
there -- where the church roof peaks like fingertips
together gently pressed and upward straight
in earnest supplication to the sky.
To ask is to receive, or so it's said;
but I have asked, and answer never came.
It could be that I asked mistakenly,
against whatever plan was made for me.
Still, I asked.  Is that not sufficient proof
I know the answer will be mine someday?

I have no guide except the silent sun,
upon whose face I cannot even look;
and looking round, my only company
is my gray shadow, clinging to my heels,
yet stretching still toward dust already trod.
It seems to hide from the sun that made it,
but I, in present state, am poor shelter.
There is nothing, then, but to carry on;
for the sun must surely set down somewhere,
and surely that is where my life awaits.

(08/08, first published in Lonestars Magazine )

A Novice's Prayer to the Sacred Heart

Today is the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. To honor Him, I would like to post this sonnet, which I wrote during my novitiate, just four months before I left the monastery.

The Lesson

Upon Thy Heart pray suffer me to rest,

That as Thou lovest I may humbly learn;

Bequeath this gift which of all Thine is best;

Imperfect loves of earth and flesh I spurn!

O Heart, Whose wound such wondrous love hath shewn,

And whence elixir sweet doth copious flow,

Grant Thou that this Thy purging deluge drown

My sin; and then with perfect love bestow

My shriven heart.  Thou Teacher of all hearts,

To master well Thy lesson do I pray;

Thy loving art doth shame such earthly arts

As once I learnt, ere came this precious day

Thou dost vouchsafe to give Thy lesson free

To one who thirsteth deep to learn of Thee.

(07/06)

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Matthew & Jeremiah

These are two of my earliest poems, written when I was in the monastery and reading a lot of Christina Rossetti. I've always loved archaic language, and loved imitating older poetry -- until a priest who is also a published poet came to visit the monastery, read my poems, and told me no editor will publish poems in archaic language, unless it's used sparingly, for a specific effect, or to make a point. Consequently, I've never submitted my early poems anywhere, but neither will I hide them away. I wrote them in all sincerity; they are the fruits of much meditation, and indicative of my particular spirituality. I post them on this Pentecost Sunday in gratitude to the Holy Spirit, in whom I trust, move, and am.

Matthew 6:6

O take me to that room whose door
When shut behind admits no more;
But, op'ning ne'er again, keeps hid
What world and fleshly pleasures chid;
A solitude of soul wherein
The mysteries of life are seen
With eyes made clear by inner light,
Of Spirit born, the truest sight.

O give me of the empty deep
Where human tempests find their sleep,
Where sacred silence stills all thought
In mind with tangled musings frought:
'Tis there the soul keeps vigil sweet,
'Tis there she finds her joy complete,
'Tis there she quits the dinning throng
And hearkens to her Lover's song.


Jeremiah 29:12-14

Belovèd mine, where may I find Thee?
Wherefore art Thou hiding still?
Through misty dark my soul doth wander,
Shiv'ring in the friendless chill.

O speak, that I Thy voice may follow,
Speak, that I may find my trove!
Have pity, for my pray'rs are weary;
Day and night they ceaseless move.

Hast Thou a word for me, Belovèd?
Some faint hope wilt Thou impart?
If thou dost seek Me, thou shalt find Me;
Only look within thy heart.

Compensations in the Life of a Spinster

     Somehow, I always knew that I'd never get married. I know, I know—"you never know." But I knew. And I know. I mean, come on, I've already passed the half-century mark. Not that my life has been lacking in romance, serious relationships, messy relationships, downright wrong relationships, joy, heartache, passion—any of that. And Lord knows I've had my fill of yearning from afar, otherwise known as "unrequited love," which fortunately became a very productive poetic inspiration, alla Dante and Petrarch.

     Ever since I can remember, my romantic nature has dominated my life, manifesting itself in crush after crush on boys who were more interested in my friends than in me. Metaphorically speaking, I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. To my youthful reasoning, my being constantly passed over was due to my looks: olive skin, flat nose, full lips. Your basic Asian-American geek, with thick glasses to boot. Keep in mind, this was back in the '60s and early '70s, before "exotically ethnic" was a turn-on. Back then, we girls all wanted to look like Cheryl Tiegs. Of course, when I got to college, it was a whole different ballgame and I was actually grateful for my looks, but as a pre-teen and adolescent, I was too insecure and shackled by social anxiety disorder to rely on my personality; in my eyes, I had none. All I had was musical talent, which tended to intimidate boys rather than attract them to me.

     That same musical talent proved to be a boon in other ways, a compensation for many heartaches and ego bruises. It gave me my life and my living, to quote John Denver, and quite an exciting, rewarding life and living they were, too. Music boosted my self-confidence and eventually tamed (though not quite cured) my social anxiety disorder. The piano became my confidante and faithful companion, though, as in all intense relationships, we had our bitter battles and dark days of not speaking to each other. I admit, I was even abusive at times, beating my fists on its keys and screaming expletives, knowing damn well it couldn't fight or scream back. But the piano never deserted me. Ultimately, I had to desert it, having come to the realization that we could never live together in harmony.

     I exchanged that great, all-consuming relationship for a much easier, less demanding one—the organ. I don't call myself a real organist, mind you, though I did teach myself, with the aid of a good book, proper organ technique (very different from the piano), including pedals; and like a real organist, I wear bona fide organ shoes when I play. However, I have absolutely no interest in playing solo organ music; all I want is to play hymns and play them very well. My organ playing is purposely limited to Mass, and in the chapel where I play, it is not necessary to have a solo prelude and postlude; just the hymns and the sung parts of the Ordinary. In this way, I am able to avoid a lot of practicing, which through my thirty-seven years as a pianist has proved to be a major threat to my sanity and blood pressure.

     All in all, music has been a wonderfully satisfying compensation for a rocky and sometimes non-existent love life; even when the piano and I were on the outs, we always loved each other deep down.

     I mentioned earlier that an unrequited love may spawn poetic inspiration. In my case, it spawned The Distant Belovèd, an ongoing, ever-expanding collection of sonnets and lyrics. At this writing, it consists of over fifty pieces (and many rejects). I write other kinds of poetry as well, not just love poems, but I had to find a creative way to—now, the Italians have a particularly charming word for it—sfogarmi, vent myself. When I first began The Distant Belovèd, I had no intention of ever having it published, either in part or as a whole. It was purely personal, an extension of my journal. But my sister, after reading a few of the poems, convinced me to submit them, and I am happy that some have found a home in small poetry journals, along with several of my non-love poems. Who knows if I'll ever try to get the whole of The Distant Belovèd published? Editors today don't seem to go for love poems, especially of the formal variety (formal poetry is poetry that has meter and/or rhyme, as opposed to free verse, which has neither), and some of mine do, I suppose, border on what they would call "sentimental." But hey, it's hard not to be sentimental about love. And what exactly is "sentimental," anyway? If it brings a smile to the lips or a tear to the eye, is it such a literary crime? Does that make me a hack? The Nicholas Sparks of poets?

     So poetry has been another great compensation, though not exactly lucrative. . . .

     But the biggest compensation of all for being a spinster is being able to spend these past few years helping my parents. I will always be grateful to have been here for my father when he needed me and my mother most; now that he's gone, I can still be here for my beloved mother. Maybe deep down I always knew, as Beth March did in Little Women, that I was never destined to fly far from home, and that my true ministry lies right here with those I love most. I regret nothing, and have everything to be thankful for.

     And I care not one whit that I ended that sentence with a preposition.

OFFERING

You gave me a heart too large
for the tiny life I've led.
Hard-pressed have I been to know
what to do with the surplus,
the virgin flesh burgeoning
in the hollow of my breast.
What will You have me do, then?

Would You take it partly spent—
or give it, like the talent
that was buried in the field,
to one less fearful than I?
Or would You have me fill it
with as much unspoken love
as any one heart can hold?

How many times have I stood
in the marketplace, this heart
too large in my trembling hands,
this blushing eager maiden
of a heart; but no one came.

My heart will not go empty.
I will sow it with the years'
silent loves and silent wounds
and reap a harvest of prayer,
place it at Your gate, in hope
that its yield may be enough.


["Offering" was first published in Dreamcatcher]

Departure

     I left the Monastery of the Infant Jesus in November, 2006, two years and four months after I entered, and six months before I would have taken temporary vows. Not a day has passed since that I have not thought of my all too short life within those walls.
     My departure had nothing and everything to do with my relationship with God. During my last months, he gave me many graces, some in the form of heavy crosses; much new light of knowledge, a greater understanding of his love; in short, I felt closer to him than ever. Yet, too, there was the tiny seed of that other knowledge that grew steadily day by day, the knowledge that he wanted something else of me. I never doubted it was his will, not just mine, that brought me to the cloister, and my confidence on that score was confirmed by the prioress, my novice directress, and many of the other sisters. They and I felt I did have a monastic vocation, and perhaps I do still. But it became clear that God wanted me to be somewhere else in the meantime.
     When the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, called me to her office to tell me she had concluded, after long weeks of prayer, it was best for me that I leave, she again said that she believed I had a vocation, but not with them and perhaps not with the Dominican order. She strongly suggested I try the Benedictines. My musical and literary gifts would be able to flourish with them, as they put great emphasis on the development and use of individual talent, more so than any other order. So why didn't I go to the Benedictines in the first place, you may ask? Precisely for that reason. From the very first whispers of my call, I wanted to find out who and what I was without my talents. They were and are a great part of that "who and what," but they also clouded the issue for me to such an extent that I no longer knew myself -- my whole self. My better self.
     There were many tears when I said goodbye to the sisters, theirs and mine. The bond of religion is a strong one, but the bond that cloistered contemplatives share is unique. Only we can truly understand why we have chosen to sacrifice our life in the world to give ourselves utterly and completely to God in prayer and penance for that same world. The contemplative vocation was, is, and always will be, something of an enigma to those who have never felt a calling to it. Many consider it an aberration, even un-Christian. Then again, how many thought Jesus was an aberration? How many still do? It is for those very people that the contemplative religious life exists at all. And it will exist till the end of earthly time.
     I took my prioress' advice, and after leaving the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, I visited the Benedictine community that I had had my eye on long before, ever since I began my discernment: the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. . . .


UNDERSTANDING

Closing the door behind her,
autumn crispness cool upon
her now bare head, she clearly
sees the room she has just left.
Her mind recalls the soft white
of tunic and scapular
hanging limply on the hook,
the once flowing fall of veil,
still scented from her shampoo,
lying motionless on the
wooden chair. And now, pausing
just outside the cloister door,
she covers her ears to block
something she has not felt for
a long time -- the chilly wind.


But what is she taking away with her?
The proper way to fold a fitted sheet?
Folded properly, with patience, it fits
better on the shelf with the other sheets.
She understands the worth of that lesson.
She understands that freedom was found in
the scarcity of things, that prayers could speak
louder in silence, that a narrow cell
could not confine the heart. She has learned well.
She knows, too, that the simple veil she wore
protected her ears and mind from the chill.


["Understanding" was first published in Time of Singing]

City Mouse Meets Robin Redbreast

From my monastery journal:

     27 February 2005   What a grace God sent me today! I went out to the cemetery lane, despite the chilly grayness and gathering clouds, to pray my rosary. After not having seen robins all my pre-cloistered life, I beheld a whole flock of them among the various trees along the lane. There were dozens sitting in the Chinese tallow near the diveway gate—the tallow has no leaves just now, of course, but it is sprinkled with tiny white berries whch made a striking contrast to the scarlet breasts and black heads of the robins. Some would flit down to the grass, hopping and pecking the ground for worms, their breasts all puffed up to their beaks. I'm told they're actually from the north, on their journey south. I suppose they are the ones I see at dawn, coursing over the monastery in huge masses.

     As I made my way back from the cemetery, approaching the same tallow, which was still abundantly ornamented with robins, I saw coming toward me dear little Sr. Mary Sybillina, one of our oldest sisters and a foundress of this monastery. She didn't notice the birds as they flew en masse to a higher, neighboring tree, startled at her approach. But after she passed me, I stood by the tallow and waited; and sure enough, as soon as they saw she was gone, they came back—warily, a few at a time, until they once again filled the white-studded gray branches. A moment later, Sister came back, noticed my fixed upward gaze, and followed my eyes. She stopped, too, and stared in wonder for a moment.

     Watching those robins, I thought of his Precious Blood—yet I was filled with joy. How can one not feel joy at the sight of those dear birds?

THE ROBIN TREE

I caught my breath in awe at that fair sight;

Such wondrous gifts at ev'ry turn may be!

A tallow, and a winged coterie

Of scarlet breasts among its berries white—

A robin tree!

Like dancing drops of blood on spotless wool

They flitted branch to branch with dizzy glee,

Three dozen strong or more, a symphony

Of whirring wing and chirping fanciful—

O robin tree!

Entranced, I found I could not turn my gaze

From such an entertaining jamboree;

It was indeed a pefect harmony

Of vision fair and merry roundelays—

That robin tree!

But as I gazed, my thoughts did turn to Him

Whose breast is scarlet, too, but with the blood

From many a cruel blow for love withstood,

Who writhes with pierced hand and straining limb

Against the wood.

Further Reflections on the Restoration of My Faith

After visiting all three monasteries, I made the momentous decision and sent an application for aspirancy to the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the Dominican cloister in Lufkin. An aspirancy is an extended visit (anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months) in which the aspirant lives inside the cloister as a temporary member of the community. This accomplishes two things: the aspirant experiences firsthand what monastic life is really like; and she determines whether that particular community is right for her—and vice-versa. Even if she likes the community, they may decide she isn't a right fit for them.

While awaiting acceptance for my aspirancy, I reflected further on the path that had led me to that point. Here are my journal entries from that time:

18 January 2004

     I was so glad to go to Mass this morning; I haven't been since Wednesday.

     Why did women stop wearing veils to Mass? It seems to me that some of the old reverence went out after Vatican II. What's wrong with wearing a veil for an hour? I don't mind pants on women, I wear them myself, as long as they're neat and not skin-tight or low on the hips. But I see spaghetti straps, tight jeans, even flip-flops! And boys coming to church in t-shirts and those awful baggy shorts, chewing gum! What ever happened to modesty, and showing respect for Our Lord?

     When I was little, we dressed our best for Mass and wore veils. Mine was of the round, doily type. Mom didn't let us cross our legs in church, and we certainly couldn't talk or even whisper. Our family, which numbered eight, took up an entire pew in Ft. Sam Houston's chapel no. 2. I remember Fr. Shockey with the "shockey-ng" blue eyes and equally shocking blue Camaro convertible; and down-to-earth, dry-humored Fr. Elias, who years later did Alice's funeral.

     I remember every Christmas, going to midnight Mass in our brand-new dresses, George and Dad in their sport coats and ties. We'd all pile into old Betsy, the red and white Chevy station wagon, and drive to the big Main Chapel on post. In those days, the houses that didn't put up Christmas lights were in the minority. The lights were such a festive sight as we came back from church in the black of night; and George, if he was driving, would click the headlights' brights on and off and sing out, "M-E-E-E-R-RY CHRISTMAS!" as we went through the neighborhood.

     I don't remember what my feelings were about God in those earliest years, but I do remember when I was a freshman at Incarnate Word High School. It was 1973, and atheism and agnosticism were very much "in vogue" following the turbulent '60s and embarking on the age of feminism, free sex, widespread birth control and legalized abortion. "Me, Myself, and I" was in; God was out. So I decided I was an agnostic. I was a child of the times, anxious to fit in and be cool. At IWHS we had a religion class. Our teacher was one of the new post-Vatican II sisters—street clothes, no veil, only a face devoid of makeup and a name badge to identify her as a religious. She had serious yet gentle eyes and a gentle voice, and was bit taken aback by my brash announcement that I was agnostic. But I read the assigned Scripture readings; it was a class, after all. We used the newly issued Good News for Modern Man translation, wildly popular at the time. And it was while reading the account in Acts of Saul's conversion that I let down my guard and gave in to Christ. I became, what was called in those days, a "Jesus freak."

19 January 2004 

     After the rediscovery of my faith as a teenager, I began to devour Scripture. I fell in love with the Wisdom books and Acts and all the Gospels. My bosom friend Cindy and I lent our voices and guitar skills to the Mass at school. Folk music was everywhere; organs and the old hymns were shunned in the so-called renewal of the Liturgy. I drew and wrote all over my notebooks and even my clothes—"Jesus is Lord" and the ubiquitous "One Way" with the hand pointing up. I covered my saddle shoes (part of the IWHS uniform) with crosses and fish. I smiled benignly on my fellow man and thought everyone was, in some way, "beautiful." Yes, I was most  definitely a '70s-style Jesus freak and late-blooming flower child.

     For reasons which remain unknown to me, I moved away from the Church and lost my faith during college. [Many years after I wrote this, I learned with the help of a therapist that the sudden death of my sister Alice was the true reason.] I became so intent on piano competitions and recitals; music became my religion. Or, rather, my career became my religion and remained so for 23 years.

     Did I ever, in all those "lost years," really lose my faith? Or did I simply push it away and bury it beneath my selfishness and ambition? How different would I be now, if I had never strayed from Him? Or is there even any point in wondering? People say things happen for a reason, we each have our own path—which is simply pop psychology's way of saying that God has a plan for each one of us. But did I go against his will 23 years ago? Or did he permit me to wander away from him, knowing I would eventually come back to him with my whole heart, wiser, more willing, more trusting? Did he purposely hide his face from me until I finally looked into the pit of my soul and admitted with every ounce of my being that I needed him? Is that what it took for me to receive the gift of true faith? For faith is a grace from God alone; it can't be contrived or manufactured through human effort or determination. It must be given—when our reason is ready to receive it.

     When I think of all the dark moments, all the tears and torments of those lost years, I cannot but be convinced of God's loving mercy; even though I never asked his help—at least, not consciously—he never really abandoned me; even though I offended him deeply and repeatedly, he forgave me. His memory for sins is short and his mercy is boundless.

FOUND BY SPLENDOR

　
I have known vermilion seas
ravishing the horizon,
drawing earth and day away
to another tomorrow.
I have known translucent arms
clinging to a fickle sky
as a lover's fingertips
would cling to his beloved's.
I have known blinding rapiers
gashing the encroaching clouds
with one last defiant thrust
before succumbing to dusk.

Beyond it all was splendor;
of that much I was certain.
Till I found it—if I could—
I had the sky, and with it,
the dream of what I believed
I could obtain. But once found,
how could I hope to hold it?
My soul was a rusted sieve
through which grains of barren faith
streamed ... sandy, impotent tears.
Yet in my pride, I questioned:
if, like Tennyson's hero,
I strove, sought with all my will,
refused to yield—would I find?

Ah, no, my restless warrior,
to yield is to find—and hold!
So many alluring suns
I sought to hold, till at last
I yielded and waited firm,
and the truer sun arose,
wrapping round me like a robe!

There is no more need to strive
for splendor. It has found me.

On Saying "Yes" to My Vocation

     Having accepted God's invitation to serve him in religious life, I then proceeded to the next phase: finding out which order he wanted me to join, and which monastery within that order. As I discussed in an earlier post, "On My 'Reversion' and Religious Vocation," there are basically two kinds of religious orders in the Catholic Church—active orders (also called "congregations") and contemplative. From the very first inkling of my call, I knew God was asking me to be a contemplative. I believe unswervingly in the power of prayer, and I have a deep desire to pray for, and in the stead of, those who cannot or will not pray themselves. I also believe unswervingly in the "white martyrdom" of the cloistered contemplative life, the freely given offering of one's own worldly life in reparation for the sins of the world. I can't bear the thought of anyone using their free will to choose evil over good and, having chosen it until the moment the soul separates from the body in death, being deprived forever of union with God. If, as I believe, prayer can save one soul from that particular destiny, then I wanted to give my whole life and being to prayer. Contemplative orders are also necessary to the active orders, the orders that devote themselves to some kind of public service in the world.  The prayers that arise continuously from contemplative monasteries help to support those sisters and brothers who remain in the world to teach, nurse, and do missionary work. Monasteries are the "powerhouses of prayer" in the Church.

     After exhaustive research, reading countless books and perusing countless websites, I narrowed my choice down to three orders: the Carmelites, the Benedictines, and the Dominicans. I was very much attracted to the austerity of the Carmelites, their great poverty and humility, and their equal balance of solitude and community. The Benedictines, whose motto is Ora et Labora ("prayer and work"), work the land and keep animals; they put great emphasis on the Liturgy and, in the larger monasteries and abbeys, are known for their expertise in Gregorian chant. The Dominicans are great students. They place emphasis on the pursuit of Truth (their motto being Veritas) through the study of Scripture and the writings of the Church Fathers. However, they are more community-oriented than the Carmelites.

     I also decided to begin my search for the right monastery in my part of the country. If God willed, I wanted to remain within easy distance of my family. I stumbled on the website of a Dominican monastery in Lufkin, just two hours north of Houston, called the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. Surprised that my spiritual director, who was a Dominican priest, did not mention this monastery to me, I asked him about it. He said he purposely didn't mention Lufkin because he didn't want to influence me toward the Dominicans.

     An opera stage director I knew put me in touch with the prioress of the Carmelites in Santa Fe, where she had done research for a production of Dialogues of the Carmelites. Then I found a new Benedictine monastery in Canyon, Texas with the help of a vocational placement service. This house was founded by a large active Benedictine teaching congregation in Arkansas that wanted to found a contemplative community.

     All three houses were willing to consider older vocations, which was essential for me, being 43 at the time. The usual age bracket for acceptance is 18 to 30 or 35. But with the relatively recent phenomenon of the young "career woman" and the general opinion that a woman just sprung from school should enjoy some years of independence before marrying and having a family (if indeed she ever eventually does so), the notion of a religious vocation is often not seriously considered or even entertained until later in life. Gone are the days when the options open to young women were pretty much limited to teaching, nursing, secretarial work, marriage, or the religious life. The luxury of choices now available to them tends to lure many of them away from the religious calling they may actually have. More and more religious communities are realizing this, and have adjusted their age limit of acceptance accordingly.

     And so, I wrote to the three monasteries I finally chose, asking to make a visit, and awaited their answers. . . .